“Touché. And warranted. Like I said, it’s been quite the . . . month. Thanks for giving me back the card I dropped. I appreciate it.”

“Are you blowing me off?”

“I am. Yes.” I smile. “Clearly, it’s something you’ve never had happen before, but unlike the rest of them, I have self-respect.”

“Glad we established that fact.” He gives a definitive nod but there’s something about him, that even when he’s getting a dig in, I still find myself wanting to like him.

“Me too,” I say and take a deliberately long sip on my straw to signal to him that once again, this conversation is over.

What I don’t expect is for him to lean down close to my ear and murmur, “For the record, all men aren’t cheating assholes.” Chills chase over my skin as he pauses. “Some, in fact, are good guys.”

“And are you one, Jase?” I ask without thinking.

He leans back so that our eyes meet. The warmth of his breath flutters over my cheek as my own stutters. There’s an intensity in his eyes that I didn’t expect and a weird want to understand it.

“Depends on the day.” As he takes a step back, that grin returns full force. It screams mischief and desire all in one tantalizing and confusing turn up of his lips. And then he walks away, throwing, “Later, Cookie Cutter,” over his shoulder as he goes.

I stare after him. I’d like to think it’s unknowingly but it’s not. I’m no better than the other women and girls in this place whose eyes are glued to him as he walks out the door and onto the street.

He looks both ways for a beat before heading to the left and out of sight.

But I keep staring at the glass storefront and the passersby.

And I keep wondering why my interaction with him feels like it’s been the best part of my day—no, week—when he’s just some random guy in Josie’s who’s pretending to be someone he isn’t.

He’s handsome. I’ll definitely give him that.

But he’s so not my type. Not the tattoos nor the combat boots. Not the cocky smirk nor the self-assurance. Not his effortless charm nor the way he finds it amusing that women think he’s someone different. Not anything and yet all of those things keep me looking after where he just was.

It’s Paul’s fault. Has to be.

He’s ruined the button-up dress shirt and Oxfords look for you. The clean-cut hair and the unmarked skin.

However, as I force myself to focus back on my design sketches, I catch myself glancing up now and again to check the doorway. Did that really just happen?

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

Gizmo

Because being an adult means you sometimes have to do things you don’t want to.